


The Meat Cute (aka How Could You Fit All This Prime Beef Into a Coffeeshop AU?)

by lousy_science



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, DC Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fandom Snowflake Challenge, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 02:04:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic written tonight for <a href="http://snowflake-challenge.dreamwidth.org/">Fandom Snowflake Challenge</a>. This has had zero editing and could almost certainly benefit from more sausage jokes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Meat Cute (aka How Could You Fit All This Prime Beef Into a Coffeeshop AU?)

Bane’s Butchers, Est. 2012, opened early for his trade customers from restaurants and cafes. There was the occasional walk-in picking up a small order of streaky bacon, usually with a glint in their eye suggesting that it was for breakfast in bed, or the occasional hangover sufferer craving Bane’s near-legendary specialty chorizo.

But he didn't get a usually huge amount of foot-traffic before lunch time. Which made the slim young man who strolled in at 10.03am wearing pajamas and no shoes surprising enough to make Bane put down his cleaver.

“Hi. How are you?”

Bane gave his customary nod to the man’s opening, waiting to see if he was about to foam at the mouth, ask whether he’d accepted Jesus as his savior yet, or offer to sell Bane some drugs. Instead, he continued, “I was wondering if I could buy a bone, please. On credit.”

“You wish for me to sell you a bone. On credit.”

It was clear that the man was trying not to burst out laughing, but there was something sincere in his eyes. As if he wasn’t laughing at Bane’s bemusement, only sharing it.

“I can pay, I promise, I just don’t have my wallet. Or my keys, to get into my home, where my wallet is, so I can only offer my word of honor. And I guess, I know some really bad jokes, I could tell you those.”

If Barsad was here he would think that this was either a tedious art stunt or the beginning of a Buzzfeed video and throw the guy out on his ass. Bane considered himself much more pragmatic and reasonable than his assistant, which was why he played along. It was beside the fact that the man looked very presentable in pajamas.

“I generally do not accept barter for my wares, and I do not need bad jokes.” Not when he worked alongside Barsad. “But I can probably spare you a bone if you provide an explanation. Upfront, not in a later installment.”

Recently Bane had discreetly hiked the price of a bag of bones when he'd started getting inundated with requests from people wanting to make their own Bone Broth. But he always had a few spare for local pet owners.

“This morning I managed to lock myself out of my apartment. My neighbor asked me to water her plants while she’s away, and today’s the day she’s back, so when I'd finished up there I locked her door behind me and slid the keys underneath it. Then I realized I didn’t have my own keys with me. I’m sure I can climb back in through my bathroom window and get back in. Then, find wallet, put on pants, come back, reimburse you, problem solved.”

“Why,” of all the questions he had, Bane felt this one was the one he had to ask, “is your bathroom window open?”

This was Gotham, after all. This area was gentrified to quinoa and back, but still, leaving an accessible window open was more foolish than walking into a butchers barefoot.

“It’s six stories up. I do a lot of rock climbing, though.”

“And how does the bone come into this plan?”

The man smiled. Bane thought he really should have been warned beforehand about the full extent of his dimples. “There’s a yard behind my building, the side where the bathroom is. There’s a dog in that yard. Usually I like dogs, but this one is part-boxer, part-Attila the Hun.”

“Attila was a master strategist.”

Bane wasn’t entirely sure why he’d said that. Something about the way the light touched the man’s dark hair, giving him a soft halo, seemed to have disarmed his brain/mouth filter.

“So am I. Hence the bone. A distraction.”

“Or a diplomatic offer.”

“Yes! A treaty. Me - John - gets access to my apartment, he - Cerberus - gets a delicious meaty bone from the fancy butcher that I’ve always been too intimidated to walk into before, and you get the finest g-rated jokes from the playground of St Swithin’s Boys Home, plus financial remuneration in a later installment. I insist.”

Intimidated? Bane’s Butchers had roses painted on the restored vintage wooden shopfront, a striped awning, and the name written over the plate glass window in gold-edged cursive font. It was, according to his pricey interior designer Talia, a “rustic and artisanal” approach.

The only thing intimidating about the place was... _him_. Butchers were traditionally burly men, but Bane was a former Luchador who still fell into a defiant stance behind the counter. It was a bad habit that Barsad told him off for all the time: “You are selling sides of beef now, not wrestling them into headlocks.”

Bane wiped his hands on his apron. “Is this dog really called Cerberus?”

“I think he’s called Jaws. Or Ouch. I hear people saying that around him a lot.”

Wrapping a thick bone up in wax paper, Bane consciously tried to look less intimidating. “Come back later to reassure me that you haven’t broken your back falling off the side of a building, and we’ll be even.”

“Thank you so, so much.” John cradled the package against his chest. “I’ll be back here before you know it. With all my own bones intact. And pants on.”

Bane said it before he’d had a chance to think. “Pants can be optional.”


End file.
